


His Mother's Son

by Nell65



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nell65/pseuds/Nell65
Summary: Roan shares more with Nia than he wants to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There was a prompt. "The more fucked up the better."

Roan tipped his chin up, letting his head fall back, and tried to suck the very last drops of vodka from the upended bottle in his hand.

His mother’s scent, the lotions and hair creams and perfumes he’d associated with her his entire life, lingered heavily in the air. It clung to the walls, to the furnishings, to the bed hangings, no doubt to the sheets and blankets as well. 

His first desire had been to order it all, every last scrap and stick, taken out and burned. His second desire had been to turn on his heel, abandon the queen’s – now the king’s – _now his_ – quarters and find some other room to make his own.

Instead he’d told his guards to bar the door to all comers until the morning, crossed to the old, heavy sideboard and poured himself a very full tumbler from one of the heavy decanters there. 

Several refills and the arrival of full night later, and he was trying to drain the last of a bottle down his throat while staring out over the city of his birth. His city now. 

He knew, in a vague and abstract way, that he must be very drunk. Several years of rough living in the wilderness, or spying among the Trikru, had led him to abstemiousness close to foreswearing any drink at all. 

Tonight he’d worked his way steadily through a bottle and a half of some of the best vodka produced in Azgeda.

Only, he didn’t feel drunk. The vodka hadn’t brought the warm haze he’d been hoping for, hadn’t thawed the ice in his gut, hadn’t slowed the thoughts buzzing in his brain. 

The trip home had been cluttered with advisors and lackeys and obsequious assholes, all trying to shape their new king’s world, or at the least, to secure their place inside it.

They’d talked and talked and talked at him so much he could no longer hear his own voice inside his head. Retreating to his mother’s rooms – his rooms – had been the only way to force a little quiet. 

He trusted his personal guards, men and women he’d trained with since they were all children together, to protect his peace. Their loyalty was…. if not unquestionable, more sure than not. He’d assumed they would be steadfast in barring his door for one night at the very least.

Which was why the sudden yelling from the hallway outside was so startling.

Exchanging the empty bottle for the long knife he’d thrown on the table when he entered, he pulled it free from its sheath and then yanked open the door, naked blade in his hand.

His guards were facing down a small, noisy supplicant. The girl. His mother’s pet nightblood. Ontari. 

She’d wept over Nia’s body. Screamed when Lexa claimed it as a token for the Skaikru. Pled with him to fight for it, to honor Nia by taking her home to a proper funeral, cursing him for a coward and a disloyal son when he refused. He’d had her gagged and bound and tossed in a wagon.

He had ignored her entirely on the journey home, wholly uninterested in anything further she might have to say. 

When the three people outside heard the door open, they broke off their confrontation and spun to face him, bowing their heads and shoulders deeply in his direction.

“Is there a problem?” He asked.

Ontari’s pointed little chin rose and she declared, “They won’t let me in.”

“Those were their orders. To let no one in.”

“Then, where will I sleep?” She sounded both bewildered and angry.

“I… what?” Roan looked to his guards. His guards looked everywhere but at him.

He looked back at the girl and growled, “Go sleep in your quarters, girl, and leave your king be.”

“I have no quarters but these. I attended the Queen, your mother.”

Roan looked quickly to his guards and cleared his throat. They nodded, their stoic expressions fully in place, and slid their eyes away as soon as they could.

Vodka or not, Roan realized there was a mystery here he probably needed to understand. But, not tonight. Really, really not tonight.

“I have no need of a body servant,” he said to Ontari. “Go find the palace keeper and ask for a guest room. Permanent quarters will be assigned to you tomorrow.”

The girl’s face paled. He thought with fear, until she raised her eyes to his, when he realized it was righteous fury. “These are my rooms. This is my place as the Queen’s nightbood!”

He raised his brow.

“As your nightblood,” she hastily corrected, sketching a quick and barely sufficient little bow. “The King’s nightblood.” Then her chin shot straight back up. “My things are inside.”

Roan considered her rigid form, shoulders drawn back, fists clenched at her sides, her curled hair nearly quivering with her intensity. 

He looked to his guards, who shrugged and nodded. 

He stepped back into his quarters, and tipped his head, very shallowly. “Then come in and collect your things.”

She nodded once, equally shallowly, and stepped into the room. Roan fell back from the entryway to give her space.

He was surprised, and then really irritated when she turned and closed the door firmly behind her. 

“I do not wish to speak with you tonight, Ontari,” he informed her. “Whatever position you filled for my mother, I do not require the same.”

“You shouldn’t turn me away until you know what it was.”

“Collect your things and go.” He spun as he said this, intending to point imperiously at her belongings, and quickly realized that he could see nothing that hadn’t always been here. Which made some sense, because surely he would have noticed the gear of another person when he first arrived. Instead he’d been taken aback by how little changed it was since his own childhood.

He turned slowly back to her. “Where did you sleep? That sofa is barely more comfortable than a wooden pew, and not long enough even for you.”

“I attended your mother.” Her words were demure. Her eyes, large and wide, peering up at him from under her lashes, were not, and her pretty little mouth was wet and red.

“Did she have you sleep on the floor?” he scoffed, not quite ready to credit what his own eyes were telling him.

“If I displeased her, yes.” Ontari fluttered her eyelashes.

Driven by a sick fasciation for her answer, despite having full well grasped these not very subtle hints, he inquired, “And if you pleased her?”

Ontari rolled her head to tilt her little chin beguilingly, but her smile was malicious. “In her bed, of course.” 

Roan groped for some memory, some hint that would support Ontari’s clear meaning, demanding incredulously, “When did this start?”

“As soon as you were banished. She said I was more valuable to her than ever, and she wanted me close.” Ontari moved nearer to him. “As close to her as her son that was lost. Closer still.”

“You were but a child!” 

And his mother was an arrogant power-hungry bitch, but he would never have suspected her of this.

“I was fifteen. Old enough to fill your place in her life. Your place in her counsels.” Ontari swayed still closer, her little pointed tongue darting out to moisten her lips. “Your place in her bed.”

Roan hit her. Backhanded her across the face so hard she spun sideways, stumbling for balance. “My mother… my mother demanded much of me. But never that. Never, ever suggest it again. To me, or to anyone else.”

Ontari straightened up, blood on her lips staining her red mouth black.

She reached up and smeared it across her chin, then licked her fingers clean, watching him like a cat the whole time.

“Who says it was your mother’s idea?” she said.

Roan hit her again, a blow with his fist to her cheek that knocked her to the floor.

“Is that how you like it, my king?” Ontari asked him, still crumpled at his feet, his title an insult in her mouth. “Do you like to draw blood? My blood? Black blood?”

“Get out,” he snarled.

“And let your guards see you beat me and spurn me? Let them carry the tale through your city that you release the nightblood to whomever can claim her next?”

Roan clenched his fist around the hilt of his knife, almost forgotten in his hand until now. It would be so very easy to drive it through her chest, be done with whatever scheme his mother wove.

Ontari looked up at him. “I’m bigger and stronger than any nightblood now training in Polis. I am trained by Azgeda warriors. I will win the next conclave. When Lexa dies. As she will soon, her path is reckless. And then I will be the Commander. Your Commander. My king.”

And then she rolled, lashed her feet, quicker than any cat, caught the back of his ankle with her foot and jerked him off his feet.

He had the wit to roll as he hit the ground, coming to his feet again at the same time as she regained hers.

“My mother would have killed you for that, girl.”

“No.” Ontari grinned, her teeth stained black. “She wanted the next commander too much. I was, I am, irreplaceable.”

“Not to me.”

Roan lunged, knife forward, raised to slash. 

Ontari jerked away, as he’d known she would, and he caught her arm with his free hand, spinning around and tossing her easily to slam against a chair, forced to steady it and herself lest she pitch it over and tangle herself in it’s legs. He drove the tip of the knife deep into the tabletop as he passed it by, momentum plunging it deep enough to vibrate when he pulled his hand away. 

The distraction was just enough that he barely caught the kick she aimed for his kidney, but he’d had enough of her measure by then to know she would try to use him as an anchor to flip over and regain the upper hand. It was a move the trainers often taught the smaller, more agile women, to maximize the strength of their legs while startling their opponents. He dropped her foot and dodged to the side, backing off to regain some space for thinking.

Her eyes were blazing with her rage, her heavy scars white against the dark flush of her face.

“You fight better than I thought for a man who reeks of vodka,” she spat.

“You don’t,” he said. “If this is your best, it isn’t good enough. Titus’s brats will beat you.”

She launched herself at him, her fingers clawed to tear and rend. He dodged, and then settled in to the fight. If force was what she required to acknowledge mastery, force she’d have. 

In their next few exchanges, he was harder pressed than he’d’ve liked. Ontari’s skills better than he’d wanted to acknowledge. On an open training floor she might even have forced a hold or two. A few of her blows landed hard, and he knew they’d leave marks. But she wasn’t used to fighting outside of the ring. She had no feel for how to move around obstacles, tables of all sizes, chairs and chests, all the things his mother enjoyed, tangible reminders of her own status and power.

Soon enough he’d trapped the girl, caught her as she tried to escape down the one channel he’d left her and he flung her back to the ground again. He finished his own spin to land a sweeping kick into her gut, so much force behind it that lifted her off the ground. 

As she tried to scramble away he stepped over her, dropping down to capture her between his thighs, using his far greater weight to press her smaller body into the stone floor.

She raised her shoulders off the ground, twisting to swing at his face with her fists, trying in vain to rock him off as she struggled beneath him. He caught her forearms, forced them down to the ground, until he was leaning over her, her arms pinned above her head.

“Be still,” he said. “Acknowledge defeat.”

She gritted her teeth and glared.

He leaned closer, plenty close enough for her to smell the spirits on his breath. “If you give me your word to be good, I’ll let you go.”

She shifted under him, arching her back to present her small breasts and rocking her hips against him. “I am good. Better than you’ve ever had.”

Then she reared up and kissed him, her mouth open and hot. It was lewd. And surprising. And strangely, unwelcomingly erotic. 

He kissed her back. Pressing her further into the floor. 

She bit his tongue, hard enough to draw blood. 

He reared up, swearing, tasting his own blood in his mouth, and slapped her hard enough he heard the back of her head crack on the floor.

Threading his fingers into her hair, he twisted until he had a really good grip, then he rose to his feet, dragging her to her knees. 

Her hands wrapped around his wrist, her fingers grappling for a hold to force his hand away.

“Scared to fuck me?” She taunted him as he dragged her to the door, knocking over another small table on the way, refusing to give her a chance to get her feet under her. “Not able to get it up?” she panted. “Too much of a mama’s boy to fuck me in her bed?”

He spun to look down, forcing her face up to his, amazed despite his fury. “Are you _trying_ to goad me into raping you?

“It’s not rape if I let you.”

“Let me what?”

“Fuck me. See why your mother kept me close. See how good I can make you feel.”

She dropped one hand from his wrist and reached for his crotch, gripping his cock hard enough to for him to feel it come alive in her hand.

“Not too drunk after all, are you, my king?” Her smile was wide, but the black blood crusting along the edges of her lips was obscene.

Then she squeezed him again.

He groaned, unconsciously loosening his grip on her hair.

She jerked free, spun to her feet and kicked sideways at his knee, aiming for the weakness of the joint. He dodged, barely, and got around behind her, capturing her with an arm bar across her neck. Half lifting her by her head, high enough she was barely on her toes, he ran his free hand down her front to her cunt, squeezing hard as he pulled her firm little ass back into his own cock. 

“You want this, Ontari? You need me to fuck you, think that will earn you a place in the new Azgeda?”

She rocked her hips, thrusting into his hand, grinding on his cock. “I serve my king.” 

He frog marched her, his hand gripping her by her cunt the whole way, to the edge of the big bed, where he knocked her face down into the quilts as he kicked her feet apart, then wedged himself between her thighs.

He flipped her jacket up over her back and yanked down her trousers.

She was panting now, pressing into the blankets with her forearms, arching back, presenting her full, pale ass to him.

He slapped her ass. Hard. 

She rolled her hips and moaned. 

So he did it again. And again. And again. Until his own palm hurt and Ontari was keening quietly, still on her toes, pushing up with her arms against he bed, holding her ass up as high as she could, straining for his touch.

Her ass had blue prints from his hands, the black blood under her fair skin turning new bruises ancient in an instant.

He reached up between her legs, torn been between contempt and excitement by how wet and aroused she was.

“You like this, Ontari. You like it a lot.” He knew he sound more amazed than threatening. He was.

“Just get on with it,” she gasped. “Claim me. I’m yours.”

He pressed his free hand into her back, pushing her flat and jabbed two fingers inside her. She cried out quietly, “Yes. Please.”

He fucked her roughly, jamming his fingers so deeply into her slick, hard little body his knuckles were soaked with her juices. Soon she was pressing down, riding him hard as her hips rotated, seeking the pressure and the rhythm she craved. He pulled his dripping fingers free, slid them up her wet folds to her clit, heard her gasping in her need and her pleasure, and the speed of her rocking hips increased.

He let her fuck herself until her tempo changed, her movements turning short and jerky. Then he pulled his hand away, ignoring her disappointed whine. He quickly freed his now rigid cock, adjusted her hips, lined up its head and thrust inside her with a single hard jerk, slamming his hips into her ass. 

She was hot and slick and so, so tight, and his own eyes fluttered closed in pleasure.

Which was an indulgence he could not allow.

He opened his eyes and leaned forward, capturing her small hands under his large ones, pressing her deep into the bedding with his body as he bent his head close to hers, letting her hear his harsh breathing, his grunts as he forced himself deeper into her with every fresh snap of his hips.

Her mewling cries every time he hit her deepest spot drove his disgust with her and with himself higher, and enraged him more, even as his cock grew harder still. Whatever foul thing had existed between his mother and this girl, he wanted none of it. 

And he wanted to fuck her until she crawled on her belly and kissed his boot to beg for more. He brushed her hair aside, yanked down the collar of her coat and sank his teeth into the dense, soft muscle at the join of her neck and her shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave another bruise.

He knew he wouldn’t last long now, but he didn’t care. He focused on his own need, his own pleasure, his own body’s desire to slam his cock into her as deeply and rapidly as he could, to let her firm, young body clasp him tightly from tip to root.

He pulled out when he felt his climax approaching, fisting himself through the last, and ejaculated on the floor between his boots, refusing to share any of it with her.

Ontari’s hips were still twitching, he knew she hadn’t finished, but he had no intention of satisfying her strange desires any further.

He stepped back and did up his trousers.

Ontari rolled to her side, her eyes wet and hot, her smile taunting as she peered at him across her shoulder, her naked ass a startling contrast to the dark leathers of her trousers puddled at her knees, to the deep blues of her fur trimmed jacket. “See how good I can be?”

Roan stepped back, keeping his eye on her as he turned and crossed to the table, jerking his knife free as he passed by, and headed for the door.

“You will have your own rooms tomorrow,” he informed her.

“Wait!” she cried. “You’re just leaving me here?”

“Yes.” He opened the door, “you’re welcome to stay the rest of the night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Only with the heavy door closed between them did his heart rate finally begin to slow.

“Sir?” the more senior of the guards asked.

“In the morning, see to it that Ontari is assigned new quarters. Move her and all her things, everything, out of these rooms. When I return I expect to see nothing but a barracks cot, a table and a chair.” 

“Sir?” The guard looked baffled. “Everything? All the furniture?”

“Everything,” Roan nodded. “Except,” he added on impulse, “for the sideboard with the liquor. That can stay.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” Roan answered, suddenly aware that even if he’d never felt nearly as drunk as he had to have been, he was very definitely going to feel every moment of the coming hangover. “I need some fresh air.”


End file.
